


Whumptober 2020

by Dragomir



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputation, Angst, Artistic License, Blood Loss, Blood and Injury, Cages, Canon-Typical Violence, Concussions, Dubious troll customs, Guns, Harm to Children, Head Injury, Heat Stroke, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Imprisonment, Injury, Introspection, Kidnapping, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Conditions, Medical Inaccuracies, Medicine, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Non-Graphic Violence, Short Fics, Trauma, Whump, Whumptober 2020, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:34:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 14,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26763670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragomir/pseuds/Dragomir
Summary: Thirty-one days of whump! Featuring Tyrajin, Fairshaw, Varrosh, LionFang, and assorted other ships, rare and otherwise.
Relationships: Broll Bearmantle & Varian Wrynn, Broll Bearmantle/Varian Wrynn (mentioned), Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw, Garrosh Hellscream/Varian Wrynn, Mathias Shaw/Edwin VanCleef (implied), Rokhan/Tyrathan Khort, Tyrathan Khort/Vol'jin, Varok Saurfang & Anduin Wrynn
Comments: 111
Kudos: 67





	1. Prompt: Shackled, Waking up Restrained

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to whumptober, which I am actually posting this year.

Tyrathan moaned softly, head ringing like the bells in Stormwind. When he lifted a hand to his head in a futile attempt to press away the pounding in his head, iron clanked at his wrists, heavier than they ought to have been.

He’d been shackled, like a dog.

That...certainly went a long way towards explaining why his head felt like it’d been put on an anvil and beaten like a dented shield. He just couldn’t remember  _ who _ had hit him so badly. The hunter buried his face in his hands and stifled another pained moan. There really weren’t a lot of options - no member of the Horde would dare, not when Vol’jin was in charge. The Crown likely didn’t  _ know _ about Vol’jin (although that didn’t rule out SI:7, but they’d likely have wanted him as an asset instead of beating him to death), and even if they had, they would have recruited him as a source of information or a messenger if the armistice held. (Couldn’t get a better informant than the Warchief’s only human friend and potential bedwarmer, after all.)

Which left the Vanysts.

Morelan, despite every unkind thought Tyrathan might have ever directed at him, was intelligent. Tyrathan’s miraculous return from the dead following the Jade Forest and Vol’jin’s bold claim of killing him, had likely sparked several fantastic - and, unfortunately,  _ true _ \- ideas in the younger man’s mind. Added to the fact that he was cuckolding Tyrathan, and there was a perfect storm of motivation for this.

The door to the cell creaked open - the hinges were in need of an oiling, which meant this  _ wasn’t _ one of the storage rooms in Vanyst Manor’s cellar - and Tyrathan almost swallowed his tongue as someone entirely unexpected stepped in.

“The warchief’s pet is awake, my lady,” the Forsaken rasped. His eyes glowed orange, and Tyrathan felt a small bit of fear curdling in his gut as the hunter stepped aside to admit Sylvanas.

Alright, so this  _ could _ actually get worse.

He wondered, idly, if Morelan had sold him out, or if the Banshee Queen had just stumbled onto the information independently.


	2. Prompt: Kidnapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynn wasn't really sure what this ransom demand said, other than perhaps the kidnapper wasn't very bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor mention of head injuries, but nothing graphic.

In Flynn’s defense, he really had been trying to pay off all the creditors who now knew he was _alive._ He really had been. Up until the end of the war and the whole Alliance pissing off back to the mainland and pulling the Azerite expeditions with them, he’d actually been making headway on getting rid of the debts to the people who actually mattered.

Also, in his defense, he really hadn’t been expecting one of Sweete’s old business partners to be both alive and smart enough to get the drop on _Mathias_. Of all people.

That was honestly kind of embarrassing for his man, but the spy did tend to run himself ragged and kept going until he was nothing more than a few frayed threads and some tattered cloth that was too poor to be a bedsheet in Dampwick. (He worked too much, was the point. Except he’d started taking breaks after the whole business with the Zandalari, but still not enough.) And somehow, some fucking _how_ , one of Harlan Sweete’s Tides-cursed business partners had managed to get the drop on Mathias and had kidnapped him.

For a _ransom_.

That was just embarrassing on so many levels.

Mostly for Mathias.

Flynn, on the other hand, was torn between amusement and a truly pants-shitting level of terror, because this particular brute liked cutting off body parts to prove he had the ransomee with him. Mostly hands. He moved to other body parts, like eyes, to encourage the victim’s family to pay up. If Mathias lost a hand or an eye, his career was over, and so was his life. Flynn knew Mathias wanted to retire, but he was pretty sure the man was going to retire on _his_ terms and nothing else.

Just getting kidnapped was going to slaughter him.

Flynn swallowed as the ransom demand was extended again. Mathias swayed on his knees at the pirate’s feet, eyes glazed over. There was a gory headwound to blame for that - matching ones, actually. Prick of a pirate should’ve known that too many head injuries would fuck someone up pretty badly… But then, he’d worked for a sadistic little thug. So.

He took the ransom demand, and wondered exactly how much trouble this would cause. But then, if this man had been smart, he wouldn’t have brought the subject of the ransom demand with him.

Bad form, that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flynn made Shaw take two weeks of vacation after he recovered from the head injuries. He only laughed at the spy once for getting captured. (Shaw denies slipping him a minor numbing agent.)


	3. Prompt: Held at gunpoint; forced to their knees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was the stupidest thing he'd ever been threatened over, and he could only imagine what Bwonsamdi was going to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrathan makes a wonderful damsel in distress. (Just don't tell him that.)

Tyrathan had genuinely expected his ex wife or Morelan to be the one holding him at gunpoint someday. (Well, alright, that wasn’t fair to his ex wife. She still hired him as a spare set of hands during lambing. He’d been right - Morelan  _ had _ fainted the first time he’d been on lambing duty.) Lynly would’ve held him at gunpoint just because she was angry enough to kill him some days. Morelan would have killed him to make Lynly happy. (They were well-matched, at least.)

He had definitely never expected it to be his liege lord, though.

Bolten Vanyst had made a career out of keeping his personal issues out of the public eye and beneath the notice of the Crown, and therefore kept himself from SI:7’s notice as well. One of his men coming back from the dead, though, had brought him into the Crown’s notice, especially given that Tyrathan wasn’t one of the usual slightly- to highly-concerning champions who could survive minor injuries like decapitation and disembowelment. Over the course of the Crown digging into the possibility of another Champion at the Alliance’s service, several of the less savory Vanyst business dealings had come to light.

And, naturally, Bolten Vanyst blamed Tyrathan for it.

That morning had started out well enough - Lord Bolten had wanted to examine some of the wolf traps along the boundary of his lands (the Gilneans were complaining loudly enough to their king that it behooved their assorted hosts to inspect things), followed by a short hunt. Well, he was going to sit on his horse, and Tyrathan was going to hunt something down that Lord Bolten could claim to have brought down himself. For that, nothing less than a five-point buck would do (never mind that it was out of season and the Vanysts didn’t need the Crown on their case for the fifth time in a month).

The wolf-traps had been dismantled and Tyrathan had noted down the names of some likely candidates for the foresters - several Gilneans, to stop the complaints, and a good number of promising bowmen from Vanyst’s holdings elsewhere - and they had proceeded on the hunt. Given that his lordship kept track of every marginally impressive animal in his lands, Tyrathan hadn’t questioned the news of a ten-point buck with a red coat somewhere in one of the less-travelled bits of forest.

He should have known better, honestly.

And now, here he was, on his knees with Bolten Vanyst pointing a hunting rifle at his head, eyes narrowed in absolute fury.

Tyrathan licked his lips nervously, tasting blood. He’d taken the butt of the rifle to the face upon reaching this clearing, and more than a few blows to his chest and stomach - from the rifle and from Lord Bolten’s boots. The man was in an utter fury, and swearing up a storm just to cap it all off.

“The only thing I can do,” Lord Bolten finally hissed, “is keep the news of your  _ obscenity _ spreading. It’s bad enough half the House of Nobles know you fell in love with some Horde dignitary, but a  _ troll _ . Bad enough to be a traitor, and now you’re adding  _ that _ on top of it.”

If he hadn’t had a gun pointed at his head, Tyrathan might have laughed. Hysterically, of course, but still.

This had to be the stupidest thing he’d ever been threatened over. Vol’jin was going to laugh at him after he died.

Hells, what was  _ Bwonsamdi _ going to do when he found out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vol'jin would resurrect Tyrathan just so he could kill him personally. Bwonsamdi would let him.


	4. Prompt: Caged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varian wondered which of them was truly in the cage, and if that distinction really mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not so much whump as introspection, but close enough.

Varian stood at the doorway that led down to Garrosh’s prison. While he could, technically, go down there - with an escort, of course, the Shado Pan didn’t trust him (or anyone)  _ that _ much - he was...nervous.

While the trial for the former Warchief hadn’t gotten to his relations with the Alliance yet, there was a strong possibility that Baine, in his role as defender, would start touching on them soon. It was...unpleasant, to say the least, that thought. Too much would doubtless be revealed - his son’s  _ fondness _ for Baine, his own fondness for Garrosh (passing fondness, easily replaced by Broll’s proximity, waxing and waning like the moons) - and…

Here he stood, hesitating, like it was  _ he _ who was caged.

Varian supposed he was, in a sense. Caged by duty, by anger, by the need for this set of wrongs to be righted. All he and Garrosh had had in common - brought about, in part, by Anduin - had been rent asunder by Garrosh’s descent into madness. It had nearly killed  _ Anduin _ . For that, Varian wanted to rip Garrosh’s head off and kick it off the edge of the nearest cliff. And yet, here he was, hesitating.

Because he wanted to kill Garrosh? Yell at him?

...Wanted to kiss him and snarl that he was an idiot who deserved a good beating?

Varian didn’t know. Murder was definitely high on the list, though. Anduin was far too precious to him for that near-loss to be easily forgiven. His son, he knew, would council forgiveness, bones aching and pain tearing at his body and soul, but he would still argue for compassion.

In many ways, Anduin was just as caged as he was - and yet, despite that, Varian couldn’t help but admire Anduin’s compassion and will to strive for peace.

He hesitated again at the door, hand pressed into the frame.

Perhaps, if the Celestials granted clemency, as Anduin suggested they might, there would be another chance to speak.

And, maybe, to see which of them was truly caged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the Celestials did want to give Garrosh clemency, but a certain bronze dragon and brat whelpling interfered. Varian never did get his answer.


	5. Prompt: On the Run, Prompt: Failed Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king's last order had been to get the prince to Ironforge and, broken leg or not, Mathias meant to carry that instruction out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of a reversal-of-fate, bad guys (in-universe speaking) win au. The Defias manage to sack Stormwind, and Mathias is left in charge of Prince Anduin.

Mathias limped along the corridor, left leg dragging behind him. While under other circumstances he could have hidden and waited for an extraction, he had something far too precious to leave behind or hide - and King Varian’s last order had been to get the young prince to Ironforge, no matter what.

Poor thing, not even a year old and already an orphan.

The spy stopped at a corner, leaning against the stones and breathing heavily. He swiped a hand over his forehead, back of his hand coming away slick with sweat and covered in the bootblack he’d used to break his features up. Harder for a Defias looter to spot him if he was part of the shadows. Even his hair had been rubbed with bootblack by a shaking Renzik before he’d made for a passage into the Keep. Renzik had left with the most valuable documents through a way only a goblin could take. Mathias had a more important duty than those documents.

He looked down at the sling strapped to his chest and smiled as the blue-eyed baby blinked up at him, still as quiet as he had been when Mathias had slipped into the nursery and slit a Defias guard’s throat. Prince Anduin was an odd baby, so quiet where most would scream and cry or fuss loudly at being taken out of a warm cradle and hurried through dark corridors by someone with a leg broken in a bad fall. (In Mathias’ defense, he hadn’t meant to slip off the roof like that. But when you were being pursued by the man who’d built those rooftops for you in the first place, a fall could be excused.) A tiny little fist waved at his nose for a second, and then the prince decided that had been enough excitement for the moment, and yawned widely before falling asleep again.

Mathias froze as footsteps - too many and too hurried to be resisting Stormwind guardsmen or his own agents - echoed down the corridor towards him. He cursed silently, curling one arm protectively around the sling keeping the prince close to him and reached for his last throwing knife with the other. Broken leg or no, he’d do whatever it took to get Prince Anduin safely to Ironforge - and that would probably necessitate a jump out a window, praying to the Light on the way down that he landed somewhere soft and didn’t shatter his good leg on impact. He breathed out slowly and opened his eyes, pressing himself deeper into the shadows offered by his corner and prayed that Lady Luck would be kind to him, and that the obvious search party would pass him by.

Except.

There was Edwin, carrying a gnomish lantern meant for lighting mines. There would be  _ no _ shadows to hide in when faced with that cruel light. Mathias swore as Edwin strode directly towards his hiding place, a determined smile on his face and a cutlass in his other hand.

“And just where,” the leader of the Defias hissed, “do you two think  _ you’re _ going?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .....Shit, I might actually go somewhere with this one later. We'll see.


	6. Prompt: No more; Prompt: "Stop, please"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of "the Defias win" au from yesterday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mathias puts his duty above everything else, including his own health.

Mathias huffed out a ragged breath, tears pricking at his eyes as his bad leg was jostled again. Somewhere nearby, a baby’s thin wail started. He groaned in pain and slapped his palms against the stone floor, wincing as they started to sting again.

Abusing himself physically wasn’t going to help the young prince, and it wouldn’t bring Prince Anduin’s Defias nanny any faster either.

The former spymaster pulled himself up against the wall, arms shaking from the effort. Very little food had been delivered, and Mathias had been mixing most of it into paste with his ration of water so the prince could eat it - Edwin had obviously never cared for a baby, or he would have sent softer foods meant for an infant. He’d never ascribed the word “inept” to his former best friend, but it was starting to hold a certain appeal.

Inch by painful inch, Mathias managed to drag himself along the wall to the crib an unsmiling Defias looter had delivered shortly after he and the prince had been locked in an office that Mathias was fairly certain had been the queen’s before her demise. The shutters had been nailed shut, so all he could do was offer a rough estimate of his position based on the room. It felt...peaceful. While Queen Tiffin had never quite seemed to grasp that he was a spy, a dangerous man, and wholly unfit to be holding the prince, she had been kind. Not gentle - she was a merchant’s daughter from Westfall, and the Ellerians had instilled the value of hard labor in her head - but kind. And, for whatever reason the Light had imparted to her and her alone, she had trusted  _ him _ with her son when no one else would do.

That had been why the king had given him charge of the prince, to get him to safety in the wake of the riots.

Neither of them could have predicted what would happen. The king was no doubt dead, his head piked alongside the rest of the nobles’. Mathias only knew about the grisly display because Edwin had taken him there to gloat - Katrana Prestor had been the first executed, apparently. Edwin had done the deed personally. (Mathias was almost jealous. She’d always been a mystery to him, and he’d never quite been convinced of her loyalty to House Wrynn. Not, of course, that he would  _ ever _ have considered sticking a knife in someone the king considered a good advisor...)

The prince lay in his crib, face gummy with tears and snot as his little fists beat the air, thin wail growing louder as whatever his current needs were remained unmet. Mathias lifted him out of the crib and slid down the wall to land on the ground in a mostly-inelegant sprawl, bouncing the prince gently in his arms and humming a drinking song one of his agents had never given up trying to teach everyone.

Light. His agents. No doubt they’d all been killed, or imprisoned. Renzik, at least, would have made it out. He was a wily little bugger, that goblin. He could just slip into Booty Bay or any number of goblin-friendly boltholes and never be discovered, even by a Defias agent.

The door opened sometime during his morose internal ramble, finally admitting a member of the Defias.

Mathias looked up, eyes dull with disgust and near-hatred. Edwin stared back down at him, eyes flicking between the plate of food in his hands and the tableau of a former spymaster cradling a wailing baby on the floor.

“Suppose you’ll be wanting milk,” Edwin rumbled, kneeling down. “Forgot about that...”

“Get out,” Mathias hissed, kicking at Edwin without much heat behind it. Edwin raised an eyebrow as Mathias’ stomach grumbled. “Just...stop. Please.” Mathias slumped backwards, away from the too-tantalizing plate of roast meat, buttered bread, and steamed vegetables. The prince had to be protected at all costs. ...The food was probably poisoned anyways.

His stomach growled audibly, betraying him.

“Do you really want me to stop?” Edwin asked, holding the plate out. “Trade you for the whelp?”

Mathias did kick him that time, and tried not to track the roll that bounced away too closely as the plate toppled off its perch on Edwin’s fingertips.

“You ungrateful shit,” the leader of the Defias sneered, Edwin buried as deeply as Mathias buried himself under his work some days. “Fine. No more help. I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” he added over his shoulder.

Mathias wondered how badly he’d fucked up this time as the door closed behind his former best friend, and realized it was probably too late to make any kind of amends as the bar dropped over the door outside.

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that was how Mathias' first relationship died. (Not really, but...) There'll probably be a part three to this. We'll see.


	7. Prompt: Support, Carrying, Enemy to Caretaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edwin didn't sound very sorry about the circumstances, and Mathias wanted to throw a book at his head for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. So, fair warning - non graphic mention of an amputation in this chapter.

Mathias’ face felt hot against the cool stone of the floor. He knew, idly, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he had a raging fever - a lovely, unwelcome side effect of the leg he’d broken - and malnourishment wasn’t helping his case. Somewhere near his head, a tiny foot connected weakly with his forehead and he catalogued that with his own injuries.

It had been…

A while? More than a week, at least, since Edwin had taken to denying him food out of spite and, by extension, starving the infant prince. Mathias could kill him just for that - they both might have been bastards, but Mathias could never recall willfully or knowingly participating in such a manner of execution for a child. He wouldn’t have stood for those kinds of orders being carried out, and King Varian would have found the absolute limits of his authority over SI:7 if he had tried to order that.

But, apparently, Edwin’s hatred of King Varian ran deep enough that it would pass to hatred of a dead man’s innocent child.

Light preserve them both.

The door opened and Mathias shifted on the floor, unwilling to expend precious energy to get up or open his eyes. The Defias clearly wanted both of them dead, on Edwin’s orders. He might as well just lie here and hope it was swift when the blade descended at last.

Except-

An arm slid under his knees, another slotting easily behind his shoulders, and he felt himself being lifted off the ground as though he weighed little more than a feather. A muffled order was given, almost in his ear - he couldn’t understand it through the faint ringing, like he’d been too near an explosion - but someone brushed past him and then Prince Anduin ceased wailing. There was a gummy-sounding hiccup, but no accompanying noise that would indicate the babe had been harmed.

“Shhh, shhh,” the person holding him soothed, “there you go, Mattie.” The voice cut through the ringing in his ears, deep basso rumble a balm to his injured soul. Edwin had returned - Mathias wanted to kill him, but in a distant way that would be more immediate if he were well-fed and not so sick. The leader of the Defias tsk’d in annoyance, tongue clicking against his teeth. Mathias could imagine the furrow between his brows and the tightening at the corner of his eyes as that mouth turned down into a disconsolate frown. He...perhaps knew Edwin too well, with too much familiarity, for his own good.

“There’s a healer for you, Mattie,” Edwin was saying as they moved, Mathias too tired and discombobulated to care overmuch, so long as there was a soft bed and a plate of food at the end. A bath too, since he was dreaming, hot and steaming, with a cake of the lavender soap he favored. “Nursemaid for the...boy.” There was a hesitation in his steps, and then Mathias felt himself being lowered down to a hard surface. “I should warn you, this is going to hurt like a son of a bitch.”

Mathias didn’t even have time to scream before the pain started.

He woke again in a bed with clean white sheets, a heavy blanket pulled up to his chest, and a much-reduced fever. There was a cradle tucked along one wall of the room, well in his line of sight if he was flat on his back, and judging by the masked Defias rocking it with one hand, the prince was sleeping in it. Mathias relaxed by fractions, tension bleeding from his shoulders as he let himself relax back into the pillows.

When he opened his eyes again, Edwin was seated at his bedside, reading a pile of papers. If not for their respective positions, it would have been any other early morning before the riots and the coup, albeit with somewhat reversed roles. Edwin looked more approachable when he wasn’t dressed for work, hair down and a pair of reading glasses he  _ definitely _ hadn’t stolen from Pathonia Shaw’s desk at some point perched on his nose.

“At least you won’t try to run across a slick rooftop again,” Edwin said, not looking up from his paperwork. “Sorry about the leg.”

He didn’t  _ sound _ sorry, and Mathias wondered if he could get his hands on a book to throw at his former friend’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mathias's thoughts on the matter could now be boiled down to "never trust a healer you haven't vetted yourself." He did get a book, eventually, and it was promptly taken away after he hit Edwin in the face with it.


	8. Prompt: "Don't say goodbye"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrathan stays with Vol'jin after the Broken Shore. Things do not go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now back to some good ol' Legion era whump. Sorry Tyrathan.

Tyrathan knelt next to the throne in Grommash Hold, fingers tacking with drying blood. Somewhere overhead, a shaman chanted, begging the spirits that still dared to brave Orgrimmar for aid. His face was tacky with blood too, dried to the side of his face where he’d swiped away sweat in the heat of battle.

Not all of the blood was his.

The giant, three-fingered hand twitched in his palm, and Tyrathan pressed a kiss to the digits, staring up at Vol’jin with watery eyes. They had always had a morbid bet on who would go first - Vol’jin to his advisors or Tyrathan to an irate Bolten Vanyst, but… They had never expected the Legion. No one had, really.

This was… Tyrathan clasped his hands firmly around Vol’jin’s, willing some of his warmth into his lover’s hand. The scent of saltwater made his nose twitch, and he wondered if the shaman had finally managed to coax a healing spirit into the hold. Not likely - Garrosh had been thorough in his madness.

“Syl...van...as...” Vol’jin croaked. Tyrathan looked up from his attempt to rub some warmth back into Vol’jin’s half-frozen hand. He’d lost so much blood… “...not...” The troll was delirious now, apparently - the poison was starting to creep through his system at a rate faster than the healers could keep up with. He was...arguing? With a spirit, maybe?

The argument continued, words dropping off. And then, finally, Vol’jin squeezed Tyrathan’s hand.

“Ya not...gonna...like this,” the warchief wheezed, lifting his hand so he could tuck a stray lock of cloud-white hair back behind Tyrathan’s ear.

Tyrathan grabbed his lover’s hand and squeezed. “Don’t! Don’t you  _ dare- _ ”

Vol’jin smiled crookedly, lopsided with one tusk missing and an eye overwhelmed by fel poison. “De Darkspear nevah die, manthing.” He tapped his fingers under Tyrathan’s chin. “Ya just...remembah dat…”

“No!”

Tyrathan was still screaming by the time Rokhan came to remove him from the throne room, kicking and struggling to make it back to Vol’jin’s side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is the story of how Tyrathan became the only person to know that Sylvanas probably wasn't supposed to be warchief. (Why do you think he spent the entirety of Legion and BFA on that mountain?)


	9. Prompt: Take me instead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrosh wins, and Varian knows there is nothing he can do to fight the Warchief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyways, moral of the story is: Don't start doing guild night shit until after the fic gets written. XD (I kid.)

Varian whined in pain, heart thudding erratically in his chest as orcs paced through the throne room. Garrosh had been...unpredictable. In another time, he’d have been intrigued by the effort and the attention.

But now, here he was, one leg broken, bleeding freely from multiple wounds, and chained to his own damn throne. He supposed he should be  _ grateful _ that he’d been left his trousers, returned after a thorough but inglorious and frighteningly thorough search. They’d even taken the tie for his hair, one orc taking a perverse pleasure in running his thick fingers through it - only to get snapped at for...something. Varian’s orcish was a different dialect - Bleeding Hollow, he’d been told, a rough burr and words too different to be understood - and he could only guess.

Perhaps the warchief just wanted Varian to himself. Perish the thought.

The shadows on the white floors had lengthened considerably, city settling into dusk, by the time someone other than the orc guards joined him in the throne room. Two of the Kor’kron, the warchief’s elite guard, entered the room, dragging a struggling blond-haired boy between them. Varian’s heart leapt to his throat as he saw his son’s state - however bad his own condition might be, however injured he was, it  _ never _ cut him deeper than seeing his son in pain.

Garrosh entered the throne room behind the guards, stopping next to Anduin as the Kor’kron forced him to his knees, arms held awkwardly behind him. His face was shiny with tears, fresh ones spilling down his face even as his lips moved in a silent prayer. Not for himself, Varian knew, but for the city and her inhabitants. He was compassionate to a fault, no matter how much Varian might wish he could be a little sterner, a little less forgiving.

“Your whelp fought bravely,” Garrosh mused, one giant hand on Anduin’s head. He seemed more interested in running his fingers through the prince’s hair than crushing his skull, but that didn’t do a thing to settle Varian’s erratically beating heart. “One of my Kor’kron said it was a pity he wasn’t an orc - he’d make a fine mate.” The warchief looked up, eyes glinting with sadistic amusement. “Of course, that doesn’t mean I can’t have my fun either way.”

Varian lunged against the chains, howling in anger. Garrosh’s smirk grew. And then Varian knew what the warchief was after - and it didn’t matter which Wrynn, because Stormwind would be his either way.

The king bowed his head, chest heaving in anger and exertion. “Take me instead,” he wheezed, rough Bleeding Hollow accent scratching at his throat. “Don’t hurt him.  _ Please _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even during Cata, when Varian was at his worst, he still would have thrown himself in front of a train to protect Anduin. And everyone on Azeroth knows this.


	10. Prompt: Blood loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And how, exactly, was Lo'gosh supposed to kiss *anyone* with a broken nose?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never actually written for this pairing, despite shipping it. They *are* adorable, tho.

Broll lifted a rag torn from his kilt to Lo’gosh’s nose, stemming the flow of blood from his fellow gladiator’s nose. The human grinned dopily up at him, pupils at odd sizes. A gash decorated the side of his head - not life threatening, praise the Mother Moon - and more injuries littered his body. All of them blood sluggishly, but at least they weren’t life-threatening or terribly concerning.

Aside from the blood.

He didn’t actually know how much blood a human could lose before it entered the critical stage. Aside from the obvious “blood lost during a beheading”, but that was true across all races. He’d never actually treated a human before - Malfurion Stormrage had during the War of the Ancients, but that was a peculiar case and no one had bothered to document it - and his best reference was Valeera. And she was no help, because the fel did things to a person’s body that made it difficult to tell if a wound was superficial or life-threatening. (He usually treated hers as life-threatening simply because she was the most fragile member of the team.)

“You think I’m pretty,” Lo’gosh slurred, pushing Broll’s hand and the rag pressed to his nose aside. The blood had dried on his upper lip and crusted into his teeth, staining everything a grotesque shade of orange-pink. None of it seemed to bother Lo’gosh, but he was concussed and it likely wouldn’t matter to him by the time the head injury had healed.

“Absolutely lovely,” Broll agreed dryly. “Let’s get you cleaned up before you start demanding a kiss.”

Lo’gosh’s smile grew wider and Broll had a bare second to react before the human had awkwardly slammed their faces together in a decent approximation of a kiss. Broll sighed and counted to ten.

“Owwwwww,” the human whined, pulling back and prodding at his nose. Fresh blood trickled down it, and his face pulled into the most comical expression of hurt and distrust Broll had ever seen. “Broll, my nose is broken.” Lo’gosh looked up, eyes huge and wet with tears. “How’m I supposed to kiss you if it’s broken?”

Broll broke down giggling helplessly, unable to stop the noise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lo'gosh spent the rest of the night upset that Broll couldn't understand how important kissing was, and Broll couldn't stop laughing even when Rhaegar yelled at them.


	11. Prompt: Defiance, Struggling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He suddenly understood why Taelia occasionally grumbled about shaving her head, not that he'd ever considered doing it himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some non-graphic violence in this chapter. Flynn's capture in Freehold.

Flynn yelped at the heavy, open-handed slap that landed against his ear, partially deafening him. The hand around his shoulder was large, heavy, and crushing into the bone like the owner had something to prove.

He dropped to the ground a second later, nose making a horrible wet impact with the floor. Something crunched, and he was pretty sure his good looks were ruined for good. Hopefully Tae wouldn’t laugh too long…

If he ever made it home.

The hand was back, grabbing him up off the floor, moving to his hair to hold him up in a manner that was honestly painful and Flynn had never contemplated short hair before this point, but he suddenly understood why Taelia kept hers so short and occasionally mumbled about shaving it all off. (She’d look horrible with a shaved head and Cyrus probably would’ve killed them both for it, but Flynn kind of understood now.)

Somewhere overhead, someone was yelling, and gentler hands tried to grab him away. Flynn let out a weak moan and tried to bat the hands away - too many people trying to grab him, and he couldn’t remember if any of them were actually  _ friendly _ .

“Stay out of this, Venrik!” the heavy-handed pirate holding him growled. A faint spark of recognition flickered in Flynn’s battered mind. Venrik. Freehold.

Shit.

Shit shit shit shit. He was  _ never _ taking a job like this for Cyrus again,  _ ever _ . Didn’t matter what he owed the old man, didn’t matter how much was offered, it was  _ not _ worth getting spotted by bloody Harlan Sweete and his Abyss-cursed Irontide. Fuck them both to the briny deeps.

...Actually, no, that’d just be awkward with Cyrus and he’d already made that mistake once with Harlan, and once had been enough.

He stared muzzily up at the Irontide holding him, and gathered up what spit he could, aiming directly for the man’s eyes. The gob of spit and blood landed somewhere nearer the pirate’s mouth, which...wasn’t great, but it made Flynn feel a bit better. Then the pirate dropped him to the ground and kicked him, which didn’t make him feel better.

But at least he could tell the Tidemother he’d made an effort, and that was what counted, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flynn spent most of his recovery prodding his nose, because he didn't believe the Champion had set it correctly. Taelia accused him of vanity and only punched his shoulder once.


	12. Prompt: Broken Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were two options: Let the Banshee kill Khort, and possibly raise him as one of her undead minions, thereby denying him his place on the Other Side, or two: Invoking some old, out-of-favor troll customs and pissing him off permanently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Non-con (non-graphic), extremely poor judgment on Rokhan's part, and some partially mangled troll customs that come under the "it's probably non-con" tag from lore.

Rokhan wiped the ashes off his hands, staring out over the waters of the Dranosh’ar Blockade towards the Echo Isles. Not ten hours ago, and he’d watched as his chieftain, mentor, and friend had succumbed to demonic poison after naming the Banshee bitch his successor.

Baine, he would have understood and welcomed. Saurfang, he’d have liked. But Sylvanas? No, that… That had  _ not _ been his chieftain speaking. Bwonsamdi would never have allowed it. No loa responsible for a Shadowhunter would have. Rokhan was rather philosophical about the Forsaken - it was hard not to be after fighting side by side with them - but he was never going to be  _ comfortable _ around them. His pact with Bwonsamdi would never have allowed for it. Even Lor’themar he could have tolerated as the new Warchief. But Sylvanas?

Fuck.

It was bad. Vol’jin’s last command to  _ him _ had...been more of a request, that could be taken any number of ways.  _ Protect Tyrathan. _ Looking back, Rokhan would guess that whatever malevolent spirit that had been working on Vol’jin had made his chieftain worried about his human’s fate. But it was still a command from his chieftain and he  _ would _ carry it out.

He flicked his fingers at the water, flicking away the last of the ash. It was demonic, or he’d have scraped his hands into the urn carrying what remained of Vol’jin after the pyre had finished burning. Not normally how the Darkspear did things, but then, there were a lot of things the Darkspear didn’t normally do.

The troll sucked a breath in around his tusks, lips pursed in displeasure. If he left now, he could make it back to Sen’jin with the Watchers before Sylvanas remembered that Tyrathan hadn’t been at the Broken Shore and wasn’t actually dead. There was, as the human said, more than one way to skin a cat.

Tyrathan wasn’t going to like the skinning knife, though.

They arrived in Sen’jin village as the sun set on the Echo Isles. Rokhan dismounted from his borrowed bat with a grimace, patting the beast on the snout as he handed the reins off to the flight master. He turned and headed immediately for Master Gadrin’s hut. At this time of night, he and Vanira would be there, conferring with the other village leaders. The news of Vol’jin’s death and too-quick funeral would have reached them by now. Gadrin had probably slipped Tyrathan a sleeping draught to keep him from doing something foolish, like throwing himself onto a pyre. Humans were strange like that.

He ducked into Gadrin’s hut, shrugging some of his armor off. It was uncomfortable, and he didn’t want to cause the human more damage than necessary when…

But first, he needed Gadrin and Vanira on his side.

Vanita was the first to greet him, eyes red and puffy with tears, hair loose down her back instead of pulled into her usual neat topknot. She would cut it later, as would most of the priests and Shadowhunters. Mourning for a beloved chieftain was purely a physical display, even if it had once been a grand funeral and several  _ weeks _ of elaborate ritual.

Before the Darkspear had changed. They were adaptable; it was in their nature.

“The Banshee threatened Khort,” Rokhan said softly, sitting down cross-legged on one of Gadrin’s cushions. The witch doctors shared a look, eyes narrowed in thoughtful understanding. “Ya both know I be Vol’jin’s heir.” He rubbed his chin - at this point, the conversation could go two ways. One, Gadrin and Vanira backed his proposal and got the rest of the tribe to hold their tongues around the Banshee Queen and her spies. Two, they killed him then and there, and he would explain to Vol’jin just  _ why _ he and Khort had joined him on the Other Side before fulfilling either of their promises.

After a moment, Vanira nodded. “We both be knowing what’s at stake.” She glanced in the direction of Vol’jin’s hut. “He not gonna understand,” she added soberly. “He gonna fight, and ya gonna have to subdue him. Can ya live with that?”

Rokhan nodded. “I can live with it if he be alive and not on the Other Side.”

“Go, then,” Gadrin flapped his hands at Rokhan. “I be needing to make potions for Tyrathan, and me and Vanira got a tribe to convince.” He shot a gimlet look at Rokhan. “I not be putting your tusks back on after they get shoved up your ass.”

The Shadowhunter laughed and pushed himself off the floor. “If he rips my tusks off, that gonna be the least of my worries.”

Gadrin nodded and slipped out of the hut, followed by Vanira. They would no doubt be off telling the village to ignore the screaming - the older Darkspear would understand what was happening. The younger would need to be told it was for Khort’s own good, and that the Banshee would likely kill him otherwise. Rokhan rubbed both hands over his face and wondered idly if Bwonsamdi would be pleased with him on the Other Side.

Probably not, but displeasing Bwonsamdi was easier than pissing off his chieftain.

Khort lay on Vol’jin’s sleeping mat, curled on his side around a pillow Vol’jin had used. His shoulders shook with near-silent sobs, and for a moment, Rokhan almost reconsidered. He could punch the human a few times, get him off, and lie to the Banshee. ...Except that hound of hers was too good at sniffing out lies, and then  _ both _ of them would be killed, and likely the entirety of the Darkspear too.

He had to carry through and make this believable. Bwonsamdi have mercy on him.

The human reacted predictably to someone putting their hand over his mouth with bruising force and fought. Rokhan slapped him with an open hand, dazing him. Despite the obvious pain - emotional and physical - Khort kept fighting, hands curled into claws as he raked at any available flesh, leaving gouges in Rokhan’s arms and face, one coming perilously close to removing an eye. Rokhan responded by punching him in the stomach and flipping him onto his front while the human lay stunned.

“This be for ya own good, Khort,” he hissed, pressing the human face-first into the mat and yanking his hips up until he was on his knees, ass exposed. Rokhan shoved his sleeping trousers down and dodged an attempt at unmanning him. “Scream all ya want,” he growled, “but no one gonna help ya.” He leaned down so he could whisper in the human’s ear. “Ya be mine now, understand?”

What little oil he’d spread on his cock was likely nowhere  _ near _ enough for taking a human unprepared, but the whole tribe would be able to attest to Khort’s screaming when the Banshee arrived to kill him. She’d buy this - she  _ had _ to, or else Khort was dead and denied his place on the Other Side. The Banshee would see to that, he had no doubts.

Eventually, Khort stopped struggling, sobbing dryly into Vol’jin’s pillow, knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the sleeping mat. Rokhan ran his fingers through Khort’s sweaty white hair, pulling it out of his face and into something that looked a little less sex-mangled. Judging by the reeking stench in the hut, he’d managed to get his chieftain’s mate off at least once. That’d add to this - Khort was, by troll custom,  _ his _ mate now. The Banshee wouldn’t care about troll custom, of course, or even that the Darkspear had stamped this particular practice out upon joining the Horde; she would only care that someone had broken Khort to their hand and he was not likely to pursue vengeance against anyone for his mate’s death.

That was all Rokhan would ask for.

Eventually, he rolled onto his back, sated for the moment but still wary of the fact that Khort was dangerous no matter how abused he was. That had been what attracted Vol’jin in the first place, and Rokhan would be a fool to ignore it. Conversely, Khort only curled into a ball, not making an effort to get away like Rokhan had expected. The sobbing was quiet, at least, even if it continued until Khort eventually passed into an exhausted slumber around dawn.

The Banshee and her hound arrived at midday. Rokhan sat on the porch of Vol’jin’s hut, now his, speaking with the elders. The younger members still glared at him like he’d taken them by force, but none of them moved against him. They all liked Khort, and the looks they shot at the Banshee were absolutely venemous. Gadrin and Vanira had managed that much, at least. Rokhan was disliked, but the Banshee was utterly reviled.

He grinned at her as she approached, dropping his hand to Khort’s head. The human whimpered softly, and Rokhan petted his hair soothingly. Khort could hate him after this, as long as he was alive.

He  _ would _ keep the human alive, even if he broke the human’s trust in the Darkspear in the process. Better alive and angry than undead and denied reunion with Vol’jin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did Tyrathan end up at Trueshot Lodge in this timeline? Easy. Rokhan sent some Darkspear with him, who were under orders to kill any Dark Ranger or potential Forsaken snitch they saw. (He was fully expecting Tyrathan to run back to the Alliance, and beat his head against a wall when the human _stayed_.)


	13. Prompt: Chemical pneumonia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mathias Shaw was many things, but in need of Wyrmbane's coddling pity was not one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in this version of canon, Shaw contracted chemical pneumonitis while Detheroc's prisoner. It's regular pneumonia but according to wikipedia, it can last forever and will fuck your life up constantly. Also it's caused by inhaling toxic fumes regularly, and given that Shaw spent nearly a year in a Legion cage, I'd imagine he came out with more damage than we saw in canon.

Mathias pressed a hand to his sternum, feeling short of breath for the fifth time that morning. He could  _ feel _ Wyrmbane’s eyes on him and knew that Greymane could hear his labored breathing. They  _ both _ knew. It rankled him. Wyrmbane’s pity was infuriating most days. Greymane’s needling was winning the competition today, though.

He imagined all the ways he could skin Greymane for a rug and coughed heavily, trying to force something resembling air back into his lungs.

Of all the things Detheroc could have done to him, between the nightmares and the scarred lungs, this was probably the worst. He was, more often than not, chained to the map table or stuck behind his desk. Actual missions were few and far between, and it pissed him off that King Wrynn was, painfully, probably right about the fact that he should start preparing a successor.

No one needed a spy with bad lungs who coughed constantly.

Mathias thought longingly of crawling back into his bunk, wrapping himself in a few heavy quilts, and sleeping until this bout of breathlessness passed. Unfortunately, there was work to do - missions to assign (that he wasn’t allowed to go on), reports to read (for missions that he hadn’t been able to participate in), and a treasury heist to plan. He was, thankfully, allowed to participate in that one. It bothered him that he had to take a mage with him, and irritated him that Wyrmbane kept offering  _ helpful _ hints that another member of SI:7 could easily take the job and maybe he ought to rest…

He’d done  _ enough _ resting, thank you, and no matter how much the idea of a warm office appealed to him in Boralus’ absolutely miserable weather, he refused to admit weakness. Other,  _ lesser _ agents could take the time to coddle themselves. He had work to do, a treasury to rob, and absolutely no time for Wyrmbane’s  _ pity _ .

Mathias turned his head away and blew out a heavy breath, noise wet and rattling. ...Alright, maybe an  _ hour’s _ rest wouldn’t be amiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, y'know, Shaw could just wait for a certain ex-pirate to wrap him up in that big ol' coat and offer him some rum. Rum cures everything, after all.


	14. Prompt: Heat Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early spring in Durotar was less tolerable than midsummer in Blackrock, and Anduin was sure the weather was out to get him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a day behind this time. :D

Anduin sat in the shade, fanning himself with a sheaf of papers. It was spring in Durotar, which apparently meant this intolerable heat was  _ cool _ weather.

How the Horde could stand to live here, he would never understand. Mulgore was a better choice just because it was temperate and had the benefit of being built on mesas that saw regular breezes even in the worst heats of summer. Silvermoon was...a wreck, honestly, but it might have been a good choice. He could even have seen the orcs taking the brunt of the Kal’dorei’s ire and settling a new capital right in Ashenvale. But here they were, in Orgrimmar, where early spring was worse than summer in Blackrock.

At least Stormwind’s summers were cooled by breezes off the ocean, even if the city became quite damp. It  _ was _ called Stormwind for a reason, after all.

He sighed and leaned back, head thumping against the wall behind him. He felt...quite dizzy, actually, mouth dry from the heat. A few more moments in the shade, and then he would go looking for a cool drink and a companion who would let him bitch endlessly about the heat.

Overlord Saurfang, perhaps. The old orc seemed fond enough of him. Although Saurfang would likely stop him from drinking ale in this weather, forcing something fruity from the Echo Isles or a summer wine from Quel’thalas into his hands instead. ...Or, more likely, water.

Anduin slumped against the wall, papers rustling as he fanned himself. The heat was quite stifling, honestly, and he wasn’t sure it was simple thirst that was making him feel so queasy. Perhaps next time he came to Orgrimmar, he’d have a 7th Legion frost mage in his entourage. Or just not wear formal clothing in this horrible weather…

He tipped sideways on the bench, papers fluttering to the ground.

Why, oh  _ why _ did Orgrimmar have to be so miserably hot?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varok chastised Anduin for three hours after he found the human and brought him somewhere cooler. The lecture might have gone over better if Anduin weren't busy being sick while a healer checked him over for heatstroke and any other side effects.


	15. Prompt: Magical Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of post-Felsoul Hold healing - Mathias just wants a bath and to sleep, but the king just won't stop _talking_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a missing scene from after Shaw's rescue and Detheroc's defeat.

Mathias sat awkwardly on a chair in the young king’s sitting room, looking steadfastly at anything  _ except _ his king. The young man was kneeling next to him, hands aglow with the Light as he tended to his spymaster’s leg. There were...worse positions, of course. Not that he could really think of any at this point.

...Suramar.

Suramar had definitely been worse.

He shivered, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. Delayed shock, his mind supplied in a snidely clinical voice. Detheroc was defeated, unmasked at last. The Uncrowned had been instrumental. He owed them more than he could repay. Jorach would merely add it to his little book of favors, which he would cash in eventually. Tethys… Honestly, Mathias could never tell what Tethys worked for on a good day. The Bloodsail were a menace and had no motivation beyond causing as much damage as possible to other seafarers. Taoshi would call it a matter of honor.

“I...should have realized,” the king offered, finally. Mathias looked away, cut on his jaw - not from the fight - twinging painfully. There were a few bruises he could have asked the king to take care of, but healing his leg had seemed to be too much of a favor to ask. He would have recovered eventually, with or without the aid of a skilled priest.

“Hm?” Mathis mumbled, not really sure if he was supposed to respond. He wanted a bath. Possibly some of the healing potions stashed in his office. ...If Detheroc had left those untouched. He would ask Renzik to acquire some more. And food. His stomach growled a bit, reminding him that magical healing couldn’t fix everything. At least his leg only ached now, instead of throbbed so painfully it was all he could do to ignore it. Detheroc had been more important than a broken shin.

“That you were...not yourself.” The king’s soft blue eyes bled apology as he placed his hands over Mathias’. “I...” He looked away, almost ashamed. “I apologize.” The words were stiff, awkward with apprehension. “Would you accept a healer visiting you at SI:7? Or, if I might be so bold, Spymaster, I could tend to whatever injuries you sustained during your...absence...when you come to report? ...No. I’m sorry, that is far too presumptuous of me.”

Mathias wished the king would stop talking so he could take his leave. He was tired. He no doubt had a mountain of paperwork to fix. The war wouldn’t stop on his account, and he had damage control to do.

“I can’t expect you to return to your post by tomorrow,” the boy blathered on. He squeezed Mathias’ hands in his, contact warm and gentle, as was the king’s too-soft nature. “Please, take at least a month off. I’ll send healers from the Cathedral to tend to you, or you could see them at the Cathedral at your leisure.” The king smiled again, face soft again with the odd gentleness only a priest could manage.

Mathias hesitated for a moment. He needed a bath more than a healer. A solid meal. But… “Thank you, your majesty,” he mumbled, feeling grit pulling at a cut on his neck. He didn’t remember getting that one. “I appreciate your generosity.”

The king squeezed his hands again, smiling. “Of course. ...Shaw? I do expect you to see the healers.”

If the king had been his father, Mathias would have rolled his eyes. As it was, he bowed his head in acknowledgement. “As you wish, your majesty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shaw slept for a week solid and only ate because Renzik brought him food and threatened to tell the king he had not, in fact, gone to see any of the priests at the Cathedral for a checkup.


	16. Prompt: Forced to Beg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mathias hoped, mostly, that the Light would answer his prayers, and that an Inquisitor was in earshot rather than Detheroc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not adding more tags, it's to a ridiculous length on mobile as it is. Check the chapter notes going forward, I guess?
> 
> Anyways.
> 
> TW for implied sexual assault, starvation, and mentions of forced feeding. (Also a severe lack of beta. I wrote this at 1 am on mobile.)

Mathias shivered in the chill, dank air of the cavern in Felsoul Hold. He had no idea how long he'd been in this cage, demons not being the most forthcoming of hosts, and could only guess by how much his belly ached from hunger. He was usually fed twice a week, if he was lucky and not being moved at the time. They'd forgotten to feed him for nearly two weeks, once, and had resorted to twice daily force feedings once they'd realized he was barely conscious.

Regardless, it had been a while since his last scrap of food - not even a rat or a monstrous spider had wandered close enough by for him to grab - and he was beginning to feel the specter of hunger clawing at his belly again, talons sharp and demanding.

He licked his lips, tasting cracked skin and dried blood. But he could still summon a bit of moisture to his mouth.

Much as it pained him, he had to  _ ask _ for food. Not even ask -  _ beg _ for it, like a beaten dog. Detheroc preferred him facedown in the dirt and grovelling or offering up more intimate favors for a scrap of bread. Other demons -the Inquisitors, mostly, seemed content with pathetic, pleading mewls of pain. He hugged his stomach as it grumbled, praying that an Inquisitor was nearby.

And, maybe, the Light would answer his prayer this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pats Shaw gently* Poor thing. The Uncrowned pretended not to notice that he'd gotten a bit weird about knowing where the food was in the Underbelly when he was there, and Renzik resigned himself to never having any snacks in his desk for roughly two years.


	17. Prompt: Blackmail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrathan realized that if either he or Morelan tried to use their blackmail, they would end up destroying each other quite thoroughly. It did keep things tidy, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some light infidelity in this one - Tyrathan's not quite that interested in making things work much longer, and Morelan wants him to just bite the damn bullet already.

Tyrathan looked up from the arrow he was fletching at the sound of a throat being cleared. Morelan Vanyst stood awkwardly at the edge of the clearing where Tyrathan lived during the off season for hunting - poaching was a problem, of course, but Tyrathan was trusted to deal fairly with them. And any dangerous animals, of course.

"..." Morelan seemed hesitant, feet shuffling in the dirt, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. Tyrathan returned his attention to the arrow and trimmed the fletching so it was just that much tidier. His arrows were the best available outside of the Seventh for a reason.

After several minutes, Morelan coughed.

"So. You and….and that troll, then." It was more a statement than a question. Tyrathan shrugged, putting the arrow into the pile next to his feet. A few more, and he could start making spares to sell.

"What about him?" he asked, wondering if he should have opted for iron or steel arrowheads over flint.

"Does your wife know you prefer getting railed by an enemy of the Alliance? Or does she think your marriage is still salvageable?"

Ah. Tyrathan had wondered when this conversation would happen.

"I'm not standing in your way," he replied evenly. "Does Bolten know you're a cuckold?"

It was the same song and dance they'd been at for months. Neither of them could expose the other, but Morelan sounded like he was about willing to take that risk finally. Lenore must've been making eyes at him again, but Tyrathan couldn't fault her, really. He'd been thinking about someone else himself.

Tyrathan wondered if murlocs still ate humans. If Morelan  _ did _ try something, they were always an option.

He'd examine that later. Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrathan never does get around to triggering mutually assured destruction - Lenore files for divorce herself. Not, of course, that either of them protest too much. (They made much better friends than they did spouses. Tyrathan still bet her twenty silver that Morelan would faint at lambing. He won.)


	18. Prompt: Panic Attacks, Phobias, and Paranoia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynn didn't know if it was the light or if there was actually mold growing in his flat, and it bothered him more than anything so small should have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: Mild panic attack caused by a (justified) fear of dirty living spaces.
> 
> Flynn grew up in Dampwick Ward. Bugs, mold, mildew, and rot would definitely be on his priority list of things to never be around again.

It was not, as far as Flynn knew, rational to be sent into a bizarre tailspin by the sight of some off-color paint in one’s home. But seeing the paint on the walls of his little flat a color it _wasn’t_ supposed to be - normally a nice, cheerful blue, now turning a bit greenish in one corner that wasn’t near the ceiling or a window or the floor - made his chest seize up and it got a bit hard to breathe.

There was nothing to support it, but he could _smell_ the damp and rot coming from the walls and it upset him. It was silly. He lived in a little flat over someone’s shop in Tradewinds now - could barely afford it, really, even with the pay from the Alliance for their little suicide runs to collect azerite - and Tradewinds was the _furthest_ thing from the persistent rot and mildew in Dampwick. And yet, here he was, struggling to breathe and ready to start crying because his paint looked a bit off.

It could have just been the light coming through the beveled glass windows, or some reflection off a rooftop outside his kitchen, or any number of trinkets hanging from the ceiling, but all he could think of was mold crawling up the walls and making it hard to sleep at night because he couldn’t _breathe._

Flynn wrapped his arms around himself and then started wiping furiously at his eyes, probably causing them no end of irritation that’d make him look a right mess, and tried to push the panic back again. It was probably just the light. Not damp or rot or mold or mildew or anything that would make his place barely livable and a hazard to everyone’s health, and at least this time he wasn’t sharing a room with eight other kids while his parent snored drunk on a couch in the other room, and he just-

He started crying, pressing his hands into his eyes, and tried not to smell the awful stench of mold in his flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once he finished scrubbing down his entire apartment, Flynn felt a bit better, even in his knuckles were raw and a bit bloody. It was just light reflected off a roof outside (not that that made him feel better).


	19. Prompt: Grief, Mourning a Loved One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whiskey was meant to be shared with loved ones, Queen Tiffin had said, pressing the bottle into his hands with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mathias gets utterly shitfaced in the wake of the Deadmines. Just one more death, even if this one isn't directly staining his hands with someone's blood.

Mathias sprawled on the only chair in his apartment, legs splayed, one arm thrown over the back, collar undone. He wasn’t sure he’d actually managed to get changed into civilian wear after returning to his cold, empty dwelling, or if he’d just stopped at abandoning his pauldrons and trading the corset for a bottle and a glass.

Actually, he hadn’t even bothered to use the glass. That was abandoned on the worn table, and he wasn’t sure he’d even pretended to care.

The bottle was two-thirds gone already.

He lifted it again, sipping from the neck, and tried not to imagine a soft laugh and warm breath against his neck as the owner told him to lay off before he made one of the masons jealous. Edwin was  _ dead _ , now, and it was… It was…

Mathias scrubbed at his face with his free hand and took another sip from the bottle. Queen Tiffin had given it to him several Winterveils ago, smiling as she told him it was whiskey from the Ellerian holdings in Westfall. Best shared, she’d told him, with loved ones.

But the queen was dead, and her wide-eyed idealism and notions of friendship with her. Edwin had seen to bloody  _ that _ . A traitorous part of his mind wished that the king had died instead - a kingdom ruled by Queen Tiffin would have been… Oh, who the fuck even knew? She was dead, and even if she’d lived, the House of Nobles had been vipers waiting for a chance to strike. If Edwin had joined him, they might have been able to fend them off  _ together _ , protect the queen just a bit better so she could make that daft fucking brat of a king see some Lights-damned  _ reason _ …

He let out a sob that echoed in the empty apartment and let the bottle fall to the ground, spilling the last of the whiskey on the ground.

The queen was dead, because of his friend - who’d almost been his lover, if only things had been different - whom he’d ordered killed, who was now nothing more than a rotting head on a pike at the gates of Stormwind. And all Mathias had left to show for it was tears and a sense of absolute  _ misery _ .

Serving the Alliance had brought him nothing but misery. And he just didn’t know how to walk away.

He buried his face in his hands, elbows planted on his knees, and sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mathias had the hangover from hell the next morning. Renzik tried not to be too loud, and kept the king's messengers at bay by threatening to gut them and turn them into murloc bait. (He wasn't happy with his boss, but he did understand, somewhat.)


	20. Prompt: Field Medicine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mathias refused to acknowledge that Fairwind might have a point about his needing some kind of field treatment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so I'm only a day behind now. Yay me! Have some pre-Fairshaw interaction.

Mathias would never know how, exactly, Fairwind managed to be the one who’d managed to avoid the traps in the Zandalari treasury. He had the grace of a drunken seal and the average intelligence of a particularly pernicious seagull on a good day, but here they were, on the rowboat that was their way out of Zuldazar and back to the ship, and  _ he _ was the one in need of medical attention.

He groaned as Fairwind pulled a silver flask out of an inner pocket of his coat, wishing his leg wasn’t currently a burned mess or that he didn’t have a gaping cut on his side. Not life threatening, of course, but it still hurt. And Fairwind was  _ drinking _ . Mathias wanted to toss the flask over the edge of the boat, because at least he could put up with the former pirate  _ pouting _ . Also, it would make him feel better to watch the man sulk like a moody toddler.

“This is going to sting like hell,” Fairwind said easily, knee-walking across the bottom of the boat to Mathias, unscrewing the cap of his flask. “I’d offer you a drink, but there’s not a lot left and you’re a bit….tight-laced.” He grinned and shook the flask genially. Mathias could hear the liquid in it sloshing around and paled when he realized what the captain was going to do.

“No, thank you. I will be  _ perfectly _ fine waiting until we reach the Redemption’s healers.” He made a move to put his hand over the cut on his side and Fairwind fixed him with a flat look.

“You don’t have much of a choice, mate. Either disinfect it now and I’ll give you a cuddle while you swear the pain away, or I sit on you and ram my boot into your shin to make you scream while I disinfect that.”

Mathias pursed his lips and scowled. “That,” he finally huffed, “is not a choice.”

Fairwind shrugged. “I think it is. You get a reward or you get punished. Either way, you don’t want to know what’s going to end up growing in that if you don’t disinfect it. And trust me, I’ve been there.”

Mathias squinted at the captain, trying to discern if the man was pulling his leg or not. With Fairwind, it was anyone’s guess. He groaned and flopped back in the boat. “I hate you.”

He really, truly did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mathias bitched and grumbled the entire time Flynn cleaned the cut out, and refused to make an expression other than "casually disdainful" when Flynn managed to clean up the burns on his leg too. (Flynn saw right through him and was insufferable for the rest of the month.)


	21. Prompt: Chronic Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynn notices the little things Shaw tries to hide, and tries to help as best he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And some pre-Treasury Fairshaw moments, because might as well. :D (If anyone would notice the little things about Shaw, it would be Flynn, lbr here.)

Flynn noticed the little things about Mathias that people probably missed. The man took his morning coffee black, but subsequent coffees throughout the day slowly became more and more milk than coffee. No sugar, though. (Apparently the man hated having any kind of joy in his life.) He never ate lunch in the crew mess, and usually ate jerky while he worked at the map table. He looked grumpy then too, and was probably imagining biting off some underling’s head while he ate.

Couldn’t blame him on that, really.

Then there were the other things - the spymaster favored one leg, like he’d broken it and it hadn’t set before the storms settled in. He rubbed his knuckles when it got cold, and his hands curled up even when he wore gloves. (He’d accepted the rabbits fur-lined gloves Flynn had offered him with no protest, which might’ve been a little forward, but Flynn was mostly just crowing over his good luck in private, that a little token had gotten through.) The man was everything anyone’d ever heard about the too-stoic mainlanders. What was wrong with asking for help, honestly? Even the Roughnecks got all teary when the pain got too much for them to handle.

...Alright, so that was mostly because getting clawed up by a wild gryphon wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, but Flynn thought he’d made a good point.

Anyways, the  _ point _ was that Shaw seemed to make it his life’s mission to suffer every little ache and pain in stoic silence. Like he didn’t matter. That honestly broke Flynn’s heart a bit, that someone could do that. It said a lot about a man, that he wouldn’t reach out when he obviously needed it.

So, of course, he’d make it his life’s mission to just get Shaw to  _ ask _ for help once in a while. All it cost him, after the gloves, would be a few mugs of coffee and some food that wasn’t better suited to boot leather. And a few of Miss Annie Upstairs’ pain-killing herbals in the meantime, because joint pain could kill a career faster than falling overboard in Northrend.

Whatever it took, so long as Shaw stopped bottling things up all the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took eighteen days for Flynn to successfully sneak sugar into Shaw's coffee, and another twelve before Shaw actually drank it.


	22. Prompt: Withdrawal (pre-Fairsahw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going cold-turkey probably wasn't a good idea, but Mathias Shaw made his heart flop awkwardly in on itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flynn's got a crush, and having flammable blood probably isn't going to help his suit.

Flynn shuddered and dragged his hands over his face, letting them fall limply back to the mattress, feeling like he hadn't managed much of anything. He was still sweaty, and now his hands were sticky too.

While it probably hadn't been a good idea to quit cold turkey, Flynn was fairly sure that Shaw preferred his men with blood that  _ wasn _ 't flammable. Although why he cared about Shaw's opinion of him…. Oh. Right. The treasury. Shaw's been  _ nice _ to him afterwards, in a way that made his heart flop over on itself. Very unpleasant, that. (Taelia said he had a crush and had laughed rather meanly, in his opinion.)

Well, here he was, wishing he were three sheets to the wind and supremely miserable. He knew Tae had left him food, somewhere, but the thought of eating  _ anything _ at this point made him want to puke again. The bucket he had next to his bed for that purpose smelled a little rank, which just made things worse. Honestly, this had been a terrible idea.

But.

Mathias Shaw.

The man was  _ gorgeous _ . He was funny - occasionally - and nice. He had a  _ fantastic _ ass, Flynn wasn’t going to kid himself. That was a big draw. But he’d been  _ nice _ . He didn’t really have a reason to be nice - he wasn’t after anything. It was sweet. And endearing. And Flynn had felt his heart flop over and do funny things, and he  _ wanted _ .

He just had to get through the next six days of not touching alcohol without puking his lungs up.

No pressure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shaw isn't sure if he's supposed to adore Flynn more for the lengths he's willing to go to, or exasperated by the danger Flynn puts himself in with some decisions.


	23. Prompt: Sleep Deprivation, Exhaustion (Saurfang)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varok couldn't say that he was alone in the swamp of sorrows, but he also couldn't be _sure_ that he was actually alone. It was complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varok Saurfang has entered the arena. Set during his "escape" from Stormwind.

Varok yawned widely, jaw cracking so loudly he was sure they’d hear it in Stormwind, and leaned against a tree. Despite the aid of Shaw -  _ very _ grudging aid - he was still pursued by both Stormwind and the Banshee Queen’s forces. Not a moment to sleep.

He rubbed at his eyes, trying to wipe away some of the grit. He had made it out of Redridge, at least. The dogs humans liked keeping as companions had almost got him captured. Slaughtering them and their owner would have made things awkward with Anduin - the whelp had  _ insisted _ on being on a first name basis - and Shaw would no doubt have tracked him down to relay Anduin’s supreme disappointment. (It wouldn’t have been effective, but just thinking about how sad the human would look was enough of a deterrent.)

Curse the brat and his sentimentality.

What he wanted, more than anything, was to lay down and sleep for a  _ week _ . But right now, there was no guarantee that he would survive the Swamp of Sorrows, much less get anywhere else. Also, he was missing the uncomfortable cot that creaked dangerously when he looked at it in his cell in the Stockades. That was just…

If he was to the point where he missed his cell in the Stockades, he needed to sleep for longer than a week.

Varok jumped when a branch snapped, borrowed axe in hand as he spun, wobbling dangerous on one foot. For a moment, he could have  _ sworn _ he’d seen a Dark Ranger following him. ...But he hadn’t scented them. Even in this wretched swamp, he should have scented them… He shook his head, rubbing at his eyes as the axe fell back to the ground. A few minutes of rest wouldn’t hurt, and he would still make it to the safe harbor Shaw had mentioned - grudgingly - before the Stormwind guards started searching the paths into and out of the swamp with any urgency.

He eased himself down to the ground, settling his axe over his knees and let his head fall back against the twisted trunk of a mangrove. Aside from the whine of gnats and the fetid stench of a stagnant swamp, it was...pleasant. His eyes slide shut for a moment, snapping open when water droplets splattered directly between them from a leaf hanging just over his head, out of reach. He frowned up at it, vision wavering as he tried to figure out if it was rotting because of the swamp, or if the edges had blackened from the touch of a Dark Ranger.

As it was, it was no doubt time to move on. He had no idea how long he’d slept at the base of the tree, or if he’d even slept at all. But he had to reach that safe haven before the humans started looking for him in earnest.

He could sleep  _ later _ . Not, of course, that sleep would come easily. He couldn’t be sure that a Dark Ranger  _ wasn’t _ following him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He does not, in fact, get to sleep for a week when he reaches the hut in the swamp. Between Zekhan, the champion(s), the Dark Rangers, and getting to Outland to find Thrall, Saurfang actually gets very little sleep. (He never stops being annoyed about this.)


	24. Prompt: Forced mutism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mathias wondered what the captain would do if he knew that the great Mathias Shaw sometimes forgot he could speak. Probably fill the silence with endless, somewhat endearing chatter, probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less forced mutism, more selective as a result of what he went through with the Legion.

Mathias shivered in the damp air, trying to remind himself that he was in Boralus and it had been two years since the Legion invasion. He was on the deck of an Alliance ship, safe in one of their territories, and no one on board the ship knew what he’d been through. (He thought Shandris and Keeshan might suspect, but Shandris was too wrapped up in the Kal’doreis’ collective issues and Keeshan wasn’t one to pry into matters this personal.)

He wrapped his arms around himself, throat catching on nothing, choking him and keeping him silent. He supposed it wasn’t normal, but he’d never let himself focus on his own comfort when the safety of the Alliance was at stake. If that meant letting the weather render him mute, then he would remain silent. His cabin was warmer than the deck, though, and the idea of warmth called like a siren’s song. (According to Fly-  _ Fairwind _ \- they could be quite alluring when the situation called for it.)

The spy shivered again, barely restraining a full-body shudder as Wyrmbane stepped too close to him, trying to point out something on the map. He supposed he  _ should _ pay attention to the briefing. He wouldn’t add anything -  _ couldn’t _ add anything, voice sticking like this, even without a demon nearby, ready to wield a cudgel to make him shut up - and the commander seemed to have it well in hand regardless. Besides, with the Zandalari’s Golden Fleet in shambles and Sylvanas doubtless licking her wounds, he wasn’t needed for any particular input at the moment.

He  _ could _ retreat to his bunk to lick metaphorical wounds, and try to remember how to talk. ...Perhaps he might even take Flynn -  _ Fairwind _ \- up on his offer of drinks or dinner. He was fairly certain the man didn’t have a mean bone in his body, at least where Mathias was concerned. It was strange.

Mathias felt the corner of his mouth twitch, and idly wondered what the Kul Tiran would do if he knew that the stoic spymaster sometimes forgot he could speak. Probably talk endlessly to fill the silence.

The thought was, at least, somewhat endearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flynn had absolutely no problem filling the silences that needed to be filled, after Mathias returned from Zandalar, and sitting quietly with Mathias during the ones that didn't.


	25. Prompt: Disorientation, Blurred Vision, Ringing Ears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In another time, Edwin would have made an excellent demolitionist for the army. As it was, Mathias was fairly certain he wanted to kill the man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnnnnd a precursor to the Defias Wins au from the beginning of the month. Mathias reminisces.
> 
> Some non-graphic descriptions of Mathias breaking his leg.

Mathias swayed with the rooftop as another explosion sounded somewhere in the city. He had to give Edwin credit: The man  _ really _ knew how to bring a city down. In another time, Mathias might have wondered how Edwin would have fared as a demolitions man in one of the Legions - the Seventh, an experimental legion, which still hadn’t done much beyond integrating some dwarves in, would have  _ loved _ him - but right now, he was supposed to reach the keep and evacuate the royal family.

Damn Edwin for this.

Damn the House of Nobles, actually. They weren’t the Wrynn family, so fuck them. They weren’t and would never  _ be _ his priority. (Technically, members of the Ellerian family were part of his narrower consideration of the royal family, but so few of them had ever left Westfall that it hadn’t really been his  _ personal _ problem.)

He shook his head, ears ringing a bit - the explosions were closer together, now, and coming closer to him - too close for his own comfort. He shook his shoulders out and glanced over the rooftops. The shingles were such cheerful colors. Edwin had laughed in delight when one of his workers had suggested making each district a different color, and had let the girl pick which would represent each area of the new Stormwind. Blue for trade, yellow for the Cathedral, purple for mages, brown for the Dwarves, and red...for Mathias. (So many rooftops in Oldtown had had to be repaired that they had been included in the new color schemes. Red for the blood shed in Oldtown, Edwin had said, but mostly red for Mathias. A romantic fool, to the end.)

Mathias took off across the rooftops - red, edging towards the grey slate of the Keep’s little district - feet slipping on slick wood and too-polished slate. If he wasn’t careful, he’d slip during another explosion and fall of the roof, breaking his fool neck in the process. There just wasn’t another way to reach the keep. He could only pray that the Legions still in Stormwind held the Defias and their supporters off long enough for the king and his infant son to be smuggled out.

...Through a tunnel Edwin had built  _ personally _ .

Mathias swore, and then the roof fell out from under him, sending him careening down to the ground, four stories below his feet. He landed with an ugly crunch and he howled in pain, not caring that he would likely be overheard by a rioter looking for some Royalist blood. He stagged upright, eyes blurred with tears and leg limp beneath him. He would never make it to the keep in this state, but he had to try.

The safety of the Wrynn family depended on  _ him _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, obviously, Mathias made it to the keep and was able to rescue Prince Anduin. If not for the collapsing rooftop and the resulting broken leg, he would have been able to smuggle the crown prince out of Stormwind. But, for want of a nail, and all that...


	26. Prompt: Blindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varok would master his new fate, or he would accidentally kill himself in the process. And Drek'thar had made this all look so easy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saurfang survives the mak'gora, but Sylvanas' magic still extracts a price from him.

Varok woke, slowly, gasping in pain. It felt like he’d taken a warhammer to the chest and, in a way, he supposed he had. He’d gone toe to toe with Sylvanas in a mak’gora - neither of them had much in the way of honor, but someone at least had to remind the Horde that they still had some.

He...hadn’t expected to make it out alive.

But here he was, alive - painfully, unfortunately, but alive - and lost in darkness. By the smell, he knew numerous torches were lit in the room. Enough that he should have been able to see. With no accompanying feeling of bandages wrapped around his head - a poultice applied to a cut on his face, too close to an eye for comfort - and a sticky plaster on his neck, but no bandages to block his vision. Well. No one came out of a mak’gora unscathed.

He’d learned that lesson years ago.

Varok sighed and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the too-comfortable bed he’d been resting in. It was no doubt a gift from one of the elves. Or he’d been sleeping on too many rough surfaces lately. ...Probably a combination. The bed was comfortable, though, a sweet song trying to lure him back into the depths of the plush mattress and heavy blankets. If he crawled back in, he might never get up, content to stay in the warmth forever.

Better to learn how to navigate the world as it was now, shrouded in darkness.

Pity Drek’thar wasn’t here. The old Frostwolf might have been able to give him some direction - no doubt with a cane applied liberally to some unguarded bodyparts. He was like that. But last Varok had heard, the orc was spending all of his time at the Maelstrom, teaching his last crop of young shaman before he finally decided to stop fending death off with his cane. He smiled, shaking his head. Drek’thar would have revelled the chance to beat some sense into a Blackrock, even if it was part of helping a fellow orc adjust to sightlessness.

Maybe some of the Burning Blade could be found. Some of them ritually blinded themselves…

He rubbed his hands over his face, wishing he could have had a different fate, and just spend his twilight years relaxing in a library, possibly surrounded by adoring grandchildren and possibly even great-grandchildren. But, as the humans said, if wishes were fishes… Wallowing got him nowhere.

He might as well start navigating his room. Hopefully without breaking something he wouldn’t be able to replace. (He doubted a healer would be too pleased about being called to re-heal his ribs if he tripped over a low table or landed chest-first on a sturdy chair.)

Varok pushed himself off the bed and swayed for a moment, letting the world re-orient itself, more or less. Someone had undone his hair before covering him with the pile of quilts. Kind of them, in the moment, but now he had to find his damn hairties in addition to navigating the room. At least braiding was muscle-memory and didn’t require sight.

Of all the foolish things…

He growled and shook his head, taking a step forward. He  _ would _ master his new fate, or accidentally kill himself in the attempt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took Saurfang three hours to find his hair ties, and another four to make it to the person who'd undone his hair and then hidden the hair ties. Anduin and Zekhan passed the blame between each other like it was a hot potato until Saurfang threatened to smack their heads together. (He was mostly trying not to laugh at them at the time.)


	27. Prompt: Extreme Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad weather in Stormwind was a little different from bad weather in the Echo Isles, and Tyrathan was fairly certain it had to do with the solidity of the walls surrounding him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrathan experiences the first tropical storm of the season in the Echo Isles. He is not impressed.

Tyrathan had been in bad storms before - the kingdom of Stormwind had come by the name for a reason, after all, and being a forester and attendant to Lord Bolten had dragged him to some interesting places - but… Aside from the snowstorm at the monastery and the few times he’d been caught in an unexpected hailstorm with only a canvas tent between himself and fist-sized balls of ice, he’d never felt  _ unsafe _ .

Now, here, in the Echo Isles, with the wind howling around him and what sounded like palm trees being ripped out of the sand, he felt decidedly exposed, like the world was ending. Even the Cataclysm hadn’t scared him this much. Being ensconced safely behind solid stone walls and under a sturdy roof had done wonders for his ability to tolerate severely inclement weather. But in Vol’jin’s hut, sheltering in his mate’s arms as the troll laughed over his head, he felt like he’d be carried off by the next gust of wind.

Vol’jin’s reassurance that this was only a  _ mild _ tropical storm did nothing to reassure him, and only reinforced the point that he did  _ not _ want to be in the Isles when a storm worthy of evacuation came around.

“It’s just a lil rain,” Vol’jin chuckled, pulling him in closer, arms crushingly tight around his shoulders. “What we gonna do wit you first time there’s a real storm, eh?” He sighed, shaking his head. “Ya think ya gonna blow away now, but...” Tyrathan grumbled discontentedly into Vol’jin’s shoulder, jumping as a loud crack sounded outside the hut. Even with the screens drawn down and lashed tightly to keep debris from flying into the open room, it just didn’t feel secure enough. “Ah. Dat be the center beam on Gadrin’s hut. He not gonna be happy when this ends.”

Tyrathan shuddered and drew his knees up to his chest, not reassured in the least. If this was Vol’jin’s idea of being comforting, they were  _ really _ going to need to have another discussion about the differences between a troll and a human’s idea of comfort.

...If they survived this storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When there was a storm worthy of evacuation predicted, Tyrathan became rather suddenly aware of just why nobody had been panicking about a single tropical storm or the center beam on Gadrin's hut breaking. One hut could be repaired quickly, but a totally flattened village took a bit more time.


	28. Prompt: Accidents, Hunting Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At best, he'd get a stern lecture from Bolvar. At worst, Shaw would never let him out of sight again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varian was well-aware that solo hunting wasn't something a king could easily do. That just added to the humiliaton.

Varian pressed a hand to his side, cursing in as many languages as he could. Given his time in the arena and his continued contact with Broll and Valeera - and an incredibly grudging amount of contact with the Horde’s warchief - it was a fairly extensive vocabulary. (He was pretty sure Bolvar was still giving him filthy looks over the newest words Anduin had learned, but it wasn’t like the boy  _ knew _ what they meant…) But, to the point: He had been incredibly stupid, and he would never live this down.

Especially if Broll and Valeera found out.

He had been  _ trying _ to hunt - solo, or as solitary as a king  _ could _ be, which meant he only had his minders from SI:7 and a half dozen Lion Guard stationed at a discreet distance while he tried to pursue his prey. And then he’d gotten gored by a damn  _ boar _ . Hunting accidents were bad enough, but he was one of the champions of the arena, one of the greatest living human warriors, and a king, and he’d  _ still _ gotten gored by the damn thing! He would never, ever live this down. Shaw would have that knowing, judging look on his face every time Varian suggested taking a solo hunt after this. More members of the Lion Guard would be called in. Shaw himself might join to babysit in an active capacity. Light. Even Broll might be called in to keep an eye on his former arena partner.

Humiliation heaped upon humiliation. Shaw could just pour handfuls of salt in this wound - it’d be faster and less painful than listening to Broll and Valeera tease him. Constantly.

To say nothing of what Anduin would say. He’d purse his lips and sigh in disappointment. (He’d look so painfully like his mother while he did it, and Varian would have to make an excuse to leave the room before he did something regrettable, like have a breakdown in front of his son. It wasn’t Anduin’s fault that he was so much like his mother…)

He sighed and thumped his head back against the tree the boar had rather kindly left him up against. At least he’d get to save the lecture for when he finally got back to the keep.

It’d be a lecture from Bolvar.

Yay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bolvar _and_ Shaw were there for the lecture when Varian was brought back to Stormwind to get patched up. Bolvar had a "I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed" speech. Shaw just lurked like a particularly menacing raven, but the threat from his end of things was clear enough.


	29. Prompt: Reluctant Bedrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king was far more perceptive than Mathias usually gave him credit for, and it bothered him to have that perceptiveness turned on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-Felsoul Hold fic. Set just before Shaw is allowed to return to his own apartment to rest. (Anduin doesn't trust him enough to think that he'd actually _rest_.)

As much as it pained Mathias, he did have to acknowledge - very,  _ very _ grudgingly - that King Anduin was right and he needed to rest. He was...weaker...than he wanted to admit, in the wake of his captivity. He was, for the time being, confined to a comfortable apartment in the keep. Apparently, the king was smarter than Mathias had given him credit for (clever, bullheaded, and devious notwithstanding), and he had somehow  _ known _ Mathias would demand his paperwork from Renzik the second he returned to his apartment in Old Town.

So, here he was, in a set of rooms generally kept for visiting dignitaries. The guard, insultingly, had been instructed to keep him there - unless he wanted to visit the gardens. The library was as off-limits as his apartment. For some Light-forsaken reason.

He was going to go  _ mad _ confined to these rooms, and he’d wondered for roughly thirty seconds if the king was punishing him for something Detheroc had done. ...Highly unlikely, and very out of character despite the king’s reported talent for the Void. He likely thought he was being kind, looking out for his spymaster’s well-being in the wake of what would be a traumatic event for another person.

Mathias limped his way back to the window seat and scowled out at the city somewhere below him, feeling as cut-off from the world as he had been in Felsoul Hold. It...was unfair of him to compare the two places. In the keep, he had access to almost any amenity he could want, he was allowed to have guests (no more than two at a time, and never for more than an hour, due to his “delicate” health), and within reason, could have almost anything he wanted brought to him, at any hour of the day and most hours of the night. Except his work, and anything that would actually keep his mind off the possibility of eating itself as he re-lived every single second of his capture and subsequent imprisonment.

_ Months _ .

Months, Detheroc had worn his face, and it had taken the death of his protege - a promising young woman he’d almost viewed as a daughter, and had definitely viewed as a replacement - for anyone to figure out that he was missing. And he owed bloody  _ Jorach _ a favor for it! Not that Jorach would ever try to collect, because the fate of the world had been at stake at the time, but it would be there in the back of Mathias’ mind for the rest of his career.

He coughed, pressing a clenched fist to his mouth, and willed the bout to subside. The cough and the injuries he’d sustained during his captivity and the fight with Detheroc were to blame for this. A gilded cage with a comfortable bed was still a cage.

Mathias rubbed his forehead and wondered if it was worth the nightmares to try and sleep again. The bed really was comfortable. ...Better than his cot at the apartment…

Damn the king for being so perceptive.

...Perhaps some more attempted rest  _ was _ in order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Mathias finally returned to his own apartment, he realized that his cot was rather uncomfortable for prolonged periods, and almost asked for the rooms in the keep back. The pain of the too-knowing, amused look on Anduin's face that would have resulted kept him at home. He still managed to sleep for a week, and Renzik kept bringing him food so he had no reason to try and go to the office to work.


	30. Prompt: Internal Organ Injury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And in the end, one hunter wasn't more important than a chieftain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for semi-graphic descriptions of injury and blood. Tag to canon from Shadows of the Horde.

Tyrathan hissed and pressed his hand into his side, fingers becoming stick with blood. He didn’t want to think about  _ what _ else was sticking to his fingers, only that it was likely a very gory wound. He...wasn’t looking down. There was definitely a hole in his side. It was...probably going to be very painful, once the shock wore off. There really was no way around this.

He felt his breath catch in his chest and coughed, hard and racking, whimpering as blood pulsed past his fingers again. He’d been run through, and it was highly unlike he’d live through this. Perforated bowel, pierced stomach, multiple internal injuries. Ruptured lung, possibly collapsed.

It was hard to breathe.

Tyrathan felt dizzy, trying to catalogue the injuries. He wasn’t going to live, that was for sure. But...at least Vol’jin would live.

And he was the important one, wasn’t he? He was a chieftain, and he was important, and had a destiny, and was probably going to end up leading the Horde because he was going to kill Garrosh… And Tyrathan was a nobody hunter, who wouldn’t be missed or mourned.

He let his hand fall. There was no point in trying to stem the flow of blood. He was dying anyways. No point in delaying the inevitable. Lynly could move on with Morelan. Everyone would be better off without him.

Tyrathan let his head fall forward, sighing.

Absolutely no one would care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needless to say, Tyrathan was rather surprised to learn that he was worth something to Vol'jin, and that he was worth keeping around.


	31. Prompt: Whipped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Flynn had told Cyrus that Harlan was a sadistic bully who enjoyed torture, he hadn't been embellishing a single Tides-damned thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for semi-graphic descriptions of injury, flogging, and mentions of blood and torture. Harlan is his own warning.

Flynn groaned into the rough floorboards of the inn Harlan used as a base in Freehold, face damp with a messy combination of tears and blood. There’d been a  _ reason _ he hadn’t come to Freehold, even with a disguise. Harlan was a vindictive, greedy son of a bitch, and he’d come under the impression that Flynn was worth money to whatever toff had dressed him up.

Joke was on Harlan, though; Flynn had found mostly-honest work and his clothes were second-hand. Not exactly the nicest things, but Harlan was an idiot who thought anything remotely flashy was equally expensive in relation to how shiny it was. (He’d been right  _ just _ often enough that it’d warped his brain, in Flynn’s opinion.) Harlan hadn’t gotten the joke when Flynn had laughed in his face after being snatched from Venrik’s bar and had taken a bit more offense to it than his goons had taken to Flynn’s presence.

That had been about the time his nose had been broken. Harlan had a lot of rings on his fat little fingers and they were worse than brass knuckles to the face. The gems had a sharp edge to them that would definitely leave some interesting scars if he got out of this alive. So much for his pretty face.

Rough hands grabbed him and hauled him off the floor and up to a kneeling position. Flynn let his head flop forward, unable and entirely unwilling to keep it up so he could look at Harlan’s ugly mug. There was unintelligible speech over his head, and Flynn couldn’t make heads nor tails of it - he’d been dealt more than one blow to the head, and his ears were still ringing like he’d been playing powder monkey again. (Fun job, until he’d started to lose hearing in one ear.) Then his wrists were cut free of the ropes binding them, and someone was pulling at his coat like they were trying to undress him. Flynn moaned in pain, a single rational thought making it through the fog.

Harlan was going to have him flogged.

It wasn’t a consolation that Harlan wasn’t going to do it himself. The little bastard had absolutely  _ no _ stamina and a weak arm. He’d have tapped out before doing any real damage, and wouldn’t have let anyone else continue because they’d just show him up for being a weak little toad.

His boots dragged on the ground as he was taken outside to the arena. In pre-Harlan times, it had been a fairly lively place, and Flynn had thoroughly enjoyed himself earning and losing his gold in it whenever he was in port. Now, it was just a place for Harlan to watch his thugs beat the shit out of people. Less gold changed hands now, and it caused a lot of resentment among crews, from what Venrik had told him. Lot of suspicion about how certain crews were staying out of getting punished one week or another, or why a crew who’d been unfailingly loyal was suddenly getting the shit kicked out of them.

Flynn could have explained that one: Harlan was a psychopathic bully who liked causing pain.

He was shoved face-first into the post in the center of the arena, arms dragged around the post and locked into the shackles on the other side. Flynn turned his head aside and wheezed out a pained breath - broken ribs - and tried to brace himself for the whip. He hadn’t flogged people much on his crew - there wasn’t usually a need to terrorize them into submission, and whipped seadogs had the habit of turning into mutinous seadogs - but Harlan had gotten a sick enjoyment out of it. Flynn shuddered away from the thought, because that delved into too much personal territory that he was still burying.

The point was, he could content himself with a normal rawhide whip on the  _ very _ rare occasion he’d brought it to bear. Harlan liked a cat-o-nine.

Mostly, he liked the damage and the blood and the pained shrieks from his victims.

When Flynn had told Cyrus that his former first mate was a sadistic bully with a fetish, he’d meant every Tides-forsaken word. Cyrus hadn’t taken him entirely seriously, thinking he was just embellishing the gruesome details so it sounded like he had a better reason to come crawling back to Boralus.  _ As if. _

The cat was dragged across his shoulders and Flynn shuddered again, a soft whimper escaping his throat before he could stop it. He clenched his hands into fists and braced himself as best he could before the strands of the whip descended.

He lost count at eight strikes, vision turning white and fading rapidly to black, even though he remained stubbornly conscious despite his best efforts. By the time it stopped, Flynn was sagging against the pillar, barely upright, breath coming in a ragged wheeze of pain. He was fairly certain he’d have to burn his pants. The blood would never come out. At least Harlan never had enough salt on hand to rub into the wounds like the Admiralty did...

And that was his final thought as he passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flynn's saving grace was that Taelia and Galeheart were so fast, and that Taelia, in fact, had believed every story he'd told about Harlan Sweete. Between her and the Champion, Flynn lived to see Harlan's downfall, even if it wasn't as cathartic as running the man through himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts [here](https://whumptober2020.tumblr.com/post/630788053870510080/welcome-to-whumptober2020).


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